Page 17 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

As the meeting at Dorian’s continues, Bailey, the social media manager, pulls her sleek ponytail tighter and begins her update.

“The Instagram post announcing Dorian’s split from Billie Rae is doing well.

Close to forty million views, five million likes, and over a hundred K supportive comments flooding in.

Of course, Billie’s die-hard fans left a few salty remarks, but that’s to be expected.

” She scrolls through her phone, her long, pointy nails clicking against the screen.

I wonder how she types, let alone avoids spelling disasters, with those claws.

“Oh, and the usual gossip about who Dorian will be dating next has started.”

I keep my pencil gliding across the notepad, feigning intense concentration on my notes, but my ears prick up at the mention of Dorian’s romantic prospects. And I swear I can feel the brush of his gaze on me as he smoothly declares, “I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing how relieved I am. I fight the urge to kick my feet under the table.

Bailey nods, her ponytail bobbing with the motion. “Got it. But remember, we need to be in the loop ASAP if that changes, okay? Any rumors of you dating someone new might put Billie Rae’s fans in a tailspin.”

I dare a peek as Dorian confirms with a silent dip of his head. But it’s his agent who talks next, addressing his question to me. “Josie, given Dorian’s history as half of a music power couple, what’s your take on shaping his image post-divorce?”

“Mmm, what do you mean?”

“Do we make him America’s sweetheart, market him as a sexy bad boy, keep him a dark horse?”

I’m appalled by how they discuss him— to his face —like he’s a piece of meat to sell at the butcher shop to the highest bidder.

I part my lips to respond that we should market him only as the best singer and songwriter of this century, but Dorian’s voice cuts through the air.

“Hold your horses, Victor. I’m not interested in crafting some new persona.

” His tone is resolute. “I want to be myself. My only concern is steering clear of bogus rumors and handling any potential backlash from Billie’s fanbase. ”

He seems ready to shed the past and determined not to be boxed into a future that isn’t on his terms. Dorian wears his confidence like an invitation, pulling me in and making me want to be a part of that journey, even if only as his publicist.

I clear my throat, drawing the attention of the room. “I agree with Dorian. Authenticity is key here. We don’t need to reinvent his image, just protect it from any unwarranted attacks or false narratives.”

“The fallout has been minimal so far.” Tessa nods. “A few snarky tweets, but nothing alarming. Both your fanbases are mostly sad about the end of an era, not out for blood. If Billie Rae doesn’t pull any stunts, we’re good.”

Dorian gives a skeptical glance at his assistant, as if asking, What are the chances of Billie not pulling stunts?

Tessa meets Dorian’s questioning look with a wry smile. “I know, wishful thinking. Billie’s not known for staying quiet. We’ll keep monitoring social media and news outlets. If something concerning pops up, we’ll be ready to do damage control as needed.”

I nod, scribbling a few last notes. No one has anything further to add, so everyone packs their laptops and tablets.

I gather my notepad and pencil, tucking them into my bag, already thinking ahead to how I’m going home to scrub my skin raw if that’s what it takes to get rid of the mustache.

And tonight, Penny and I will talk about which pranks are acceptable and which aren’t when Auntie has to go to work.

I still can’t believe I had to sit through an entire meeting in front of Dorian with doodles on my face.

The thought has been needling me for the past hour, small and persistent, a splinter under my skin that refuses to work its way free.

Like a sudden gust of wind, Dorian’s voice sweeps away my circling thoughts, cutting through the noise and leaving no room for anything else. “Josie, could you hang back a minute?” He gestures for me to follow him. “Leave your stuff. You can grab it later.”

Nervous, curious, and bewildered, I trail after him, my heart rate picking up speed with each step. He leads me out of the office, down the hall, and up a grand staircase. A million questions swirl through my head as we ascend. What does he want? Why the mysterious trek? Where is he taking me?

We arrive at what I can only assume is his bedroom. It must be. A king bed dominates the space, the sheets are still rumpled and Dorian lives alone, right?

A stack of worn paperbacks sits on the left nightstand, covers dark, spines creased, and the titles unreadable.

I squint, desperate for this tiny glimpse into his inner world.

Is he into thrillers or does he secretly enjoy mafia romances?

I need to know. But the shadows and the distance keep his secrets.

I give up on the bookish quest and take in the rest of the room.

In the corner, a burgundy electric guitar catches the sunlight near a desk cluttered by crumpled music sheets.

Enormous, unwise feelings balloon in my chest as I picture him, scribbling down chords and testing them on the guitar. The scene feels intimate, personal, like I’m peering behind a curtain Dorian usually keeps drawn.

Why did he bring me here? My eyes flit to the bed, its rumpled sheets suddenly taking on a new, enticing meaning. Heat rushes to my cheeks at the thought.

But before my imagination can run wild, Dorian pivots, heading for the en suite bathroom. I follow—and nearly choke. It’s the size of a New York apartment and looks like a spa: warm stone, rainfall shower, soaking tub, and a suspiciously well-stocked skincare line-up.

He grabs one of the containers, a sleek white one with gold lettering, and squirts a dense, milky liquid onto a cotton disk. “My stylist swears this is the best makeup remover on the market.”

I quirk an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You wear makeup often?”

He flashes me a grin, the kind that makes standing upright complicated. “Gotta get rid of the guyliner somehow.”

I laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. But my laughter chokes in my throat as Dorian steps closer, too close, the heat of his body warming the air between us. He raises the cotton disk, hovering it halfway to my mouth. “May I?”

My breath catches. “I can do it myself.”

“I know.”

Dorian doesn’t step back, and his gaze, piercing yet gentle, has me nodding a silent permission.

His free hand comes up, cupping my chin with a tenderness that contrasts the calluses on his fingertips. Musician’s hands. Now I understand what the fuss is about in romantasy novels about callused hands.

He holds me still as he brings the cotton to my lip.

The disk grazes my skin, and it’s nothing—a faint pressure, a fleeting contact. And yet, somehow, it’s everything.

It’s not a sexy act, not really. But the intimacy, the reverent care in his touch, makes me feel like I’m free-falling. I stiffen at first, every survival instinct screaming at me to pull away, to deflect with a joke, to do anything but let myself fall for him any harder.

But how can I not?

His hand doesn’t waver, and neither does his gaze. Gosh, I’d forgotten what it’s like to be the sole focus of Dorian’s attention. It amplifies my existence while simultaneously locking us up in an invisible cage, cutting us off from everything else.

He finishes dabbing the cleanser. “Now you have to let it sit for a few minutes.” Dorian sets the bottle aside on the counter but doesn’t step back. We stay facing each other in his personal bathroom, too close, in a space that’s too private.

“I’m sorry, by the way.” I feel compelled to apologize. “About the mustache. I know it’s unprofessional, but I didn’t have a choice. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t apologize.” His jaw tightens as if he’s wrestling with what to say. “Your niece’s dad, he’s…?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I use a technique I’ve learned in therapy to talk about my grief without breaking down.

To stay present and reduce emotional overwhelm, I focus on five things I can see—the frosted windows, stone tiles, the tub, the moisturizing jars, Dorian.

Four things I can touch—the counter, a towel, my dress, Dorian.

Three I can hear—a leaf blower in the distance, the faint hum of the air conditioning, any of Dorian’s songs that I can play in my head as clearly as if streaming them at top volume.

Two I can smell—the cleanser and Dorian—and one I can taste.

No Dorian here , I’ve no idea how he tastes.

All I have is a trace of this morning’s coffee to focus on.

“His name was Daniel,” I finally say, my voice steadier than I expected. “He was a firefighter. We lost him three years ago.”

Dorian’s eyes soften with genuine sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Josie. That’s devastating. How old is your niece now?”

“She’s seven. She was only four when it happened.”

A slight frown creases Dorian’s brow as if he’s just grasped a memory. “Is that why you knew the firefighters who rescued us that day?”

I nod, a sad smile tugging at my lips. “Yes, those were Daniel’s old squad mates. They’re still like family to us.”

Dorian’s fingers graze my arm in a comforting gesture that has goosebumps breaking over my skin despite the heaviness of the moment. “Is he why you cried in the elevator?”

I nod. “The last time I listened to ‘Falling from the Same Sky’ was when my sister, Lily, asked me to help her clear the house of his things. It had been a year since he’d passed.

” I swallow against the twisting emotions.

“We put it on repeat and ugly cried the entire time we were collecting his stuff.”

“I’m sorry.” Dorian works his jaw. “And your sister? How is she doing?”

I take a shaky breath, voicing the worries I usually keep tucked away.

“Honestly? I don’t think she’ll ever be truly okay again.

Daniel was the love of her life, her soulmate.

Losing him… it shattered her in ways I can’t even fathom.

But she has Penny to live for, and so she pushes through…

” Guilt seizes up my chest. “You know, I used to be so jealous of her. Of their whirlwind romance. They met and were married within a year, had a gorgeous kid the second my sister graduated from nursing school and had a stable job. I used to think how lucky she was…” I don’t know why I’m baring the darkest parts of myself.

“And when she lost him…” I blink rapidly, glancing at the ceiling, willing the tears not to fall.

Turns out my coping strategies still need work.

“Hey.” Dorian’s fingers slide down to give my hand a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to discuss it if it’s too much.”

Grateful for the out, I nod. “Can I take this cleanser off now? My lip is going numb.”

Dorian’s lips quirk into a smile. “Let’s check.”

He reaches for a fresh cotton disk and carefully dabs at the corner of my mouth. Every brief touch from him is like taking a direct hit from a bolt of lightning.

“Looks good,” he confirms. “I’ll get the rest.”

With gentle motions, Dorian wipes away the remaining cleanser. I focus on keeping my breathing even, but it’s a losing battle.

When he’s done, I stare in the mirror, needing a moment to collect myself. My upper lip is pink and tender, but the mustache is gone without a trace.

“What magic potion did you use on me?” I turn back to Dorian with a raised brow. “That’s not an off-the-counter cleansing milk.”

Dorian grins. “Busted. It’s a professional-grade makeup remover I use on movie sets. Basically a chemical peel.”

“Apparently so. Thank you.” I touch my lip, marveling at the smoothness. “Now that I’m presentable again, I should head back to the office.”

“Stay.”

I’m taken aback by the intensity of the single-word request. It doesn’t sound like a casual offer, it feels like a plea for connection.

He sounds so alone. How many people does Dorian interact with who aren’t on his payroll?

I wonder if he has any friends. Or if his world has narrowed down so drastically post-divorce that the only interactions he has are transactional.

Or maybe I’m grasping for an altruistic excuse to give myself permission to stay.

Before I can reply, he adds, “If you go, I’ll picture you eating a protein bar while driving and I can’t have that.” His tone is playful but sincere. “You have to eat anyway, and purse food doesn’t count.”

I should refuse, jump in my car, and get to work.

But my other clients have been shifted to colleagues to clear my docket for Dorian.

And while I’m sure I could find something to help with if I went back to the office, I’m not really needed there.

Still, the professional thing to do would be to leave.

But he’s watching me with that world-blurring, cocoon-making gaze I can’t say no to. I’d say yes to matching tattoos if he looked at me like that and asked, and I’m terrified of needles.

“Okay, I’ll stay,” I relent. “But only for a quick bite. Then I really need to head back.”

Triumph brightens his face as he smiles, but it’s the relief in his eyes that rasps against my rib cage, demanding to be let in.

“I’ll take it.” He beckons me. “Come on, we can raid the fridge and eat outside.”

I hope the fridge is the only thing he plans to raid because my heart can’t withstand the assault.